


Walk Outside The Walls

by Im_The_Doctor (Bofur1)



Category: Video Blogging RPF, Youtube RPF
Genre: Accidents, Anger, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Arguing, Blindfolds, Blindness, Blood Loss, Blood and Injury, Caretaking, Concern, Escape, Hemophilia, Hypothermia, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, Major Character Injury, Medical Procedures, Misunderstandings, Multiple Selves, No Promises No Lies, Protectiveness, Queerplatonic Dark/Host - Freeform, Queerplatonic Relationships, Rescue Missions, Shock, Storms, Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-30
Updated: 2017-10-30
Packaged: 2019-01-26 16:27:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,154
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12561452
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bofur1/pseuds/Im_The_Doctor
Summary: Storming off after an ugly argument, the Host finds himself unprepared for a rainstorm equally powerful. One wrong turn leads to another and he finds himself on his own with no idea where he is—not to mention the fact that he's got a nasty wound in his side which won't stop bleeding...





	Walk Outside The Walls

**Author's Note:**

> Warning: Gross descriptions about blood, eye socket damage, and other general messiness! You may want to skim over those parts if you're sensitive to stuff like that.

Where was he? It was the foremost question in the Host’s mind: where on earth, above, or below was he?

The Host didn’t have memory loss; thanks to his Foresight, his memory was far above average, enough so that it was more often a burden than an advantage. The downside to it was that it worked most efficiently in places he was familiar with. Right now, with his fingertips catching on nothing but mud, dirty water and silt mingling with the blood on his cheeks, entire body throbbing and achy with cold, his mind’s eye could only find fragmented images and all of them were so _dark_ —

Dark…The Host had tried to call him some time ago, but his phone was on critically low charge and in this storm, the call very well could have been lost. Even if his friend had picked up, the Host wasn’t sure he could have heard him over the howling wind.

He had left Egos Incorporated in the late afternoon, positively livid. The King of the Squirrels had allowed—and even _encouraged_ —his rancid creatures to nest in the Host’s fresh writing materials, including the ones he had been currently _using_.

When Wilford hopelessly attempted to solve the problem by shooting several of the animals, the King had promptly gone into a meltdown. Meanwhile the Host had turned to Dark for guidance. He of all people had to understand the dire importance of the Host’s work; _he_ knew what it was like to have something so important ripped away!

No such sympathy was found. For the first time since the very beginnings of their friendship, the Host had found Dark aloof and silent, unwilling to stand up for his point of view, much less help him.

That shock had been too much; spitting curses at them all, the Host had promptly taken his leave. He was going to have no part in calming the King down when he had brought it on himself by being an inconsiderate fool.

Where he was going, the Host didn’t know, but this wasn’t the first time he had left the building without supervision. Early in the Host’s treatment, Dr. Iplier had learned better than to advise against it; the Host hardly ever went outside unless he did it alone, so it was his only opportunity to get some sunlight.

Today, however, the crack of thunder preceded rain pouring down on his head and the Host had actually been grateful that he had some weather befitting his mood.

He had always been fond of rain; the noise drowned out so many exhausting thoughts of the others and allowed him to focus on his work. In this situation, it calmed him just as usual but had also granted him the agonizing realization that all of his recent writings about what was to come would have to be written again. This meant actively seeking out the _visions_ again, as well as the pain that accompanied them, and that was a thought almost too much to bear.

He had set out even farther as the wind picked up, jamming his hands into his pockets as the temperature dropped. It only fell faster with dusk. As such, he had no way of reaching for a handhold as his shoes slipped on the rain-slick earth and he went tumbling down into an unknown ditch.

Once the stars had cleared his head, he had registered the fact that he was curled up in some good inches of rainwater and every part of his body felt cracked. He suspected only a few areas honestly were, but that didn’t stop the rest of his frame from joining the protest.

Not too long ago, he had mustered the energy to try army-crawling his way to higher ground, but the short distance he had cleared felt like miles and when he fumbled through a painfully brief vision of what was around him, he couldn’t see any change. For just a few moments, he had found his footing, but he hadn’t been given any opportunity to find his bearings before the wind slammed him down again—this time into some rocks. With a sharp cry and a dull thud, there he had stayed.

“The Host c-considers attempting to scale the ditch again, despite his sprained wrist…” he whispered through chattering teeth, his jaw cramping. As soon as he shifted to try it, fresh pain burned through his body and he exhaled in a hiss, resting his forehead against the smoothest of the stones. “…but d-decides against it…”

His wrist didn’t hurt nearly as much as it could; most of the pain originated from his side, between his lower ribs. The gash was small but fairly deep and as soon as he found it, the Host knew he was in trouble he hadn’t expected—the only kind of trouble that worried him. He had immediately stripped off his coat to compress the wound, but the sleeves were already soaked through and the lapels were catching up. The longer he stayed out here…

“Worse yet,” he went on hoarsely, almost unheard beneath the pounding rain, “he finds that the cold is…m-making his fingers stiff and weak, unable to hold the compress properly.” Lifting his head, he groaned out a bitter laugh as he considered how that sounded. “He retightens his grip, r-refusing to give up. H-He would rather not be guilty of narrating his own ‘From Bad to Worse’ trope.”

 _Yet he continues to find his situation worsening_.

As far as he’d heard, Mark and Ryan had never mentioned hemophilia when they created him, but he had always known; the proof was quite literally in his face. He had made relative peace with his situation, but it was times like these that brought all of his old panic surging back.

Like the rest of the Egos, he’d had his fair share of cuts and bruises in his everyday life. His first real scare had been when he was the youngest Ego in the house, only two months old. The King had been in a hurry to get through the kitchen—attempting to avoid Dark, as it turned out—and had knocked the Host’s arm when he was slicing up some chicken. Dr. Iplier wouldn’t be created for another six months, which meant the Host had tried to make do with nothing but a few kitchen towels. He’d only succeeded in busting his head open against the kitchen counter as he passed out and, despite his prodding, Dark and Wilford wouldn’t tell him how on earth they had healed him, even to this day. In fact, they wouldn’t speak of it.

He’d been more prepared since then and with the addition of Dr. Iplier, he’d been granted more official care. He’d been supplied a fully stocked medical kit in his bedroom closet and an emergency roll of bandages for his coat pocket. If he hadn’t forgotten to grab them in his flurried rage, he wouldn’t have old, sodden ones sliding down the bridge of his nose right now.

The next time, they fell entirely around his neck and he couldn’t find the energy to readjust them, letting the rainwater slide down his eyebrows into the chasms underneath. Eagerly the cold air filled whatever gaps the water missed, striking up an icy headache that left the dulled scraps of nerve endings completely numb. Warm, fresh blood met rainwater and cold air, pooling unattractively, and he hazily dipped his head to let it all drain.

He shouldn’t be doing this, he reminded himself after several moments. He could never let the bleeding get out of hand, here and now least of all. He needed to move. If he didn’t, hypothermia and shock would work together against him. He already felt too lightheaded, too close for comfort. If he let it paralyze him, he may never get home.

“Even…even with the hostility that awaited him, which he didn’t understand,” he panted, tying his coat into an uncomfortably tight knot around his stomach, “he would give anything to be home. He will vow to stay out of the rain and to charge his phone before he leaves. He will remember his bandages if he can just—get—”

Using the rocks as leverage, he pushed himself upright. He managed to limp about three and a half feet before he slipped, narrowly recapturing his balance and wiping at his eye sockets before trying again, straining for his Foresight. Even in his vision, everything was spinning like a slow wheel of fortune—or _mis_ fortune, as the case may be. He glanced down, watching his own hand as it moved just a few seconds in the future, peeling his coat away to check on his wound. He would find a fresh sheet of blood soaking into the hem of his pants. He could feel it already.

At that point he crumpled where he was with exactly none of the grace he was renowned for. If his eye sockets weren’t nightmarishly filthy before, landing face first in the mud ensured they were now. Spitting and gagging, he turned on his side, letting the rain wash more of the sludge into his hair and on his shoulders. He couldn’t bring himself to care. Whatever energy he had left was dying away, conscious thought with it.

“Host!”

Darkness was closing in. Was he hallucinating…or was that Dark himself closing in?

“ _Host_ , you fool, where are you?! Answer me!”

For once in his life, the _one time_ he needed them to, his visions wouldn’t come; he couldn’t gauge where on earth the voice was coming from. Thus he jumped when Dark’s hands grasped his shoulders and one of his knees bumped his side. He was demanding answers, where the Host had been, how he had ended up here, but those questions ended when he tore aside the knotted coat.

“Why didn’t you bandage this?!” he snarled instead, urgency only making him sound angrier as he tore through coat pockets. “Where are they? Host—”  

The Host tried to find any answer other than a moan before his jaw locked, but there wasn’t any. Dark was swearing with zeal as he slid his arms under the Host’s back and knees, pulling him into an awkward cradle and draping his shroud of miasma around the both of them.

Dark’s aura was naturally cool, but as it whipped against the storm around them, it felt like the Host had just been dragged into an oven. He curled more tightly into it, leaning into his friend’s shoulder and breathing shallowly as chilled spasms ran through his body. His last thought before he passed out was that Dark’s suit was going to be a _ruin_.

***

When he woke, he was still cool and somewhat shivery, but it was superficial. The dressings for his eye sockets were clean and crisp—and judging by the soreness of those sockets, he could only imagine how much deep cleaning Dr. Iplier had been forced to do. His ribs were tender and his wrist wouldn’t bend, but he felt strangely calm regardless.

“How are you feeling?” Dark asked gruffly, drawing the Host’s attention. Of course he was the source of the cold air in the room; tendrils of smoke were infringing on the Host’s blankets, some restive and twitchy, others curled limp and half-dissolved. From the looks of it, he was in a new suit, freshly pressed and perfectly straight.

“The Host is…a bit discomposed,” he admitted dryly, wondering what he looked like in comparison to his companion.

“You’re much improved from when I found you.” For a minute or two, silence coagulated between them, and then Dark announced abruptly, “I had no intention of standing up for you because I cannot afford to let the others think you’re one of my weaknesses.”

He was referring to the argument that built up to all of this, the Host recalled faintly. It felt so far away now. “The Host…understands,” he consented reluctantly.

“But judging by their reactions when I returned with you in your sorry state, they already suspect it.” Dark sounded more than a little accusatory, but the Host didn’t acknowledge that; he was too busy searching through his Hindsight for the scene. When he saw the moment where Dark’s hand moved from supporting his head to clutching Dr. Iplier’s throat, he steered the vision away. The past was the past. He needed to focus his Sight on the present.

“The Host would like to know Darkiplier’s point.”

“My point,” Dark growled softly, “is that I don’t want you putting me in that position again.”

Translation: _Don’t scare me like that again_.

“The Host cannot make any promises,” he answered honestly.

Dark stiffened, his tendrils of smoke lashing agitatedly, and then he forcibly stilled them. “Try,” he suggested evenly, folding his hands in his lap.

“…That he can agree to. He will try.”

**Author's Note:**

> Welp, I don't feel particularly well, so naturally I had to hurt the Host and make Dark swoop in to rescue him. What can I say? I'm weak for Dark pulling his aura around his buddy like a protective blanket ;w; 
> 
> Also apparently Mark says that the Host and the Author were never the same person? I say liiiiies! The Host belonged to Cyndago, but since Cyndago is no longer active (rest in peace, Daniel) there isn't any official canon to limit me, even if it's Mark saying it, so I'm sticking with my headcanons! I need my writer Host <3


End file.
